Owning My Swiftie Era
I have a confession to make. I am ridiculously, stupidly, unabashedly, unequivocally, 100% obsessed with Taylor Swift.
At first, it was the catchiness of her songs—bouncing around the room with my little sister to “Shake it Off” in our nightly dance parties when I was six. Later, I was drawn in by her lyrics—by nine, I was listening to “Love Story” and “White Horse” with a level of emotional commitment I didn’t have the life experience to justify. Taylor’s songs told stories I actually cared about. I felt the yearning in her music for respect, love, and control while I was navigating the same emotions as a middle schooler. I loved that the music felt bigger than whatever was happening in my real life, but at the same time, it felt familiar, like she was speaking words directly to me. Eventually, I became attached to her personal struggle as an artist and a woman fighting against a system that diminished her—a video of her giving a commencement speech with confidence, humor, and humility turned “I’m really into her music” into a full-blown “I know her maternal grandmother’s name” level of obsession.
People love to treat obsession as if it's a force that takes over your whole personality–like the second you care too much, you turn one-dimensional. And as the eldest daughter and a November baby, trying to keep up with older friends, I learned early that there were “right” things to like and “childish” things to hide. I wanted to be smart, studious, and put-together; someone people took seriously. “Obsessed Swiftie” didn’t fit that image. So even as my brain was consumed with memorizing obscure Swiftie trivia, dissecting song lyrics, and hunting for hidden Easter eggs in music videos, I was careful never to let people see how much I cared. I taught myself to keep my excitement “reasonable.” If someone asked me my favorite artist, I’d shrug. If someone teased Swifties, I’d laugh along.
I loved that the music felt bigger than whatever was happening in my real life, but at the same time, it felt familiar, like she was speaking words directly to me.
Behind closed doors, I loved Taylor in my playlists, in locked Notes entries, and in late-night scrolling with my brightness low. I’ve cried listening to her talk about getting her masters back. I’ve mentally RSVP’d to her wedding. Inside one of my locked Notes, right next to the lyric breakdowns I would never admit I wrote, was a Taylor Swift quote I’d loved: “I don’t think you should ever have to apologize for your excitement. Just because something’s cliché doesn’t mean it’s not awesome. The worst kind of person is someone who makes someone feel bad, dumb, or stupid for being excited about something.” I treated this quote like a warning about everyone else, as if the danger was out there somewhere, waiting to mock me the second I admitted I was obsessed. I didn’t realize “the worst kind of person,” the one making me feel silly for my excitement, was me.
The Eras Tour was the first time I saw what it could look like when nobody bothered to hide their fandom. An entire stadium dressed in sequins and friendship bracelets screamed every word to a ten-minute song like it mattered. No one pretended to be cooler than they were. No one shrunk themselves. We were a community of Swifites, sharing our joy out loud. The experience finally loosened something in me, and little pieces of my obsession started slipping into the open. In public spaces, you’d still never know I’m a Swiftie, but my close friends and family are now fully aware of the depth of my passion.
The more I began to share my love for Taylor with those I trusted, the more boring days felt electric. Whenever a random Instagram post had exactly 13 words in the caption, I texted my sister as if I’d discovered a government secret. When a snake crossed our path, I convinced my friends it was a sign that Reputation (Taylor’s Version) was about to be released. One time, I even added up the numbers on a McDonald’s receipt because a lyric in her song “Clara Bow” says “we’re loving it.” When they added up to thirteen, I screamed with my bestie. I knew it was ridiculous, but sharing that moment with her was the best part of my day. Taylor sparked moments of connection, and I found a gentler kind of closeness that came from letting people see what genuinely lights me up.
And the funny thing is, none of this made me feel less serious. If you know me as a TA for AT Research, you’d never guess that the same part of my brain that breaks down someone’s research method is the part that stitches together Easter eggs across albums. It’s the same muscle. The same curiosity. The same all-in way my brain works, just in different fonts.
I have discovered that joyful obsession doesn’t limit you; it opens your world up.
A few weeks ago, my sister turned thirteen, the most sacred number in Swiftie culture. I knew she wanted a Taylor-themed party. I have watched her scream the bridge of “Cruel Summer” in the car, try to guess a song in 0.1 seconds, and throw out theories she definitely stole from YouTube shorts. So I insisted we go all in: pastel balloons, a homemade cake, labels for snacks with insider plays on song lyrics. It was ridiculous and perfect.
At first, she loved it and was glowing–fully Swiftified. But the second her non-Swiftie friends walked in, she dialed herself down: quieter, cooler, pretending the party wasn’t something she’d been counting down to for weeks. And watching her shrink made something sink in my stomach. I wanted so badly for her to have the party I wished I’d had the confidence for at 13, but she was doing exactly what I had done, loving something loudly in private and pretending it didn’t matter in public. Watching my sister hide her excitement, it hit me that it isn’t enough to let a few insiders in on my obsession; I need to share the whole of myself with the world. Because if I keep treating obsession like something that needs to be softened, laughed off, or made “reasonable,” she’ll learn to do the same.
So I owned it. At the party, I was the chaotic older sister yelling lyric references across the kitchen, forcing friendship bracelets on everyone, explaining in disturbing detail why the number thirteen was basically Swiftie scripture. I was done hiding.
And today I am admitting to you that I am a full-blown, obnoxiously-obsessed Swiftie. I have discovered that joyful obsession doesn’t limit you; it opens your world up. It lets regular days feel like they have layers. It gives you little sparks, things to laugh about, tiny moments to look forward to, and permission to be alive in your own life. Liking Taylor Swift never made me small. Pretending not to like her did. So yes, I’m obsessed. And honestly? I hope you are too, not necessarily with Taylor (although you should be), but with whatever brings you joy. And I, for one, would like to see the whole you. So if you see me in the hallway, I’ll trade you a friendship bracelet for whatever you’re into—your niche podcast, your baking phase, a K-drama theory, a favorite musical, cubing, fortnight, pilates, or something else I haven’t heard of yet. What if we all decided to share the things we love without shrinking ourselves? Wouldn’t our community be so much more interesting and joyful?